


Love the Way You Lie

by Kitsune_no_Tora



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsune_no_Tora/pseuds/Kitsune_no_Tora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just stand there and watch us burn...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love the Way You Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Not really a songfic… just really heavily inspired by the song Love the Way You Lie by Eminem featuring Rihanna.
> 
> Cross-posted here from FanFiction.Net due to rating crackdown.

.~.~.~.~.

_Just stand there and watch me burn…_

Sometimes, he wonders. About the sky, about the sea, about rolling verdant green hills. About the flashing of green eyes in the twilight, about shaggy golden hair that runs through his fingers like water, about the expanse of pale skin covered in bumpy scars.

Sometimes he wonders what love really is. Yes, the very thing he claims to know the best sometimes leaves him wondering if he truly is as wise as he says. He used to have an answer.

He often gets asked what it really is. He used to be so earnest, ready to teach all who dared to ask. These days, he finds himself stumbling over his explanation. He doesn't know if he's so sure, not anymore.

Sometimes, he wonders if it always felt like being slammed against the wall, the photographs hung along it clattering and falling to the floor; like the ache left in his bones as England roughly slammed into him again and again. He wonders if it tasted like sweat and blood and the harsh burn of alcohol. He wonders if it always sounded like harsh words and well-aimed insults.

Sometimes, he wonders if it always smelled like barely-controlled rage.

And sometimes, he wonders why he keeps coming back for more.

_It's alright because I like the way it hurts…_

He wonders when things changed. When seeing his smile—just the right mix of pure happiness and teasing smugness, those daring blue eyes lighting up and he swore they even  _sparkled_ —turned from something that gave him that welcome warm fuzzy feeling to making his blood boil.

He wonders when closing his long fingers around the sun-kissed column of his neck until he choked, when the sound of his ribs creaking when he slammed into him, when seeing him the morning after covered in the marks he made, when it became so satisfying.

He wonders where it all went wrong. He wonders when the bottle became his best companion, when hurting France started giving him that high.

He wonders if it's even wrong to begin with. He wonders when he'll finally go too far.

When he does, when the tears roll down his blackened cheeks, when France packs his bags and leaves beaten black and blue, he wonders just what kind of person he has become.

He watches himself in the mirror. He doesn't recognize the person staring back anymore—the person who hurt the one he loved: the one he promised to never harm, not ever again. He stares at the person who so badly hurt the one who used to take his breath away with every gesture, gave him chills whenever they touched, stroked the fire within him with every kiss.

He doesn't recognize himself, the one in the mirror—the person who knows they would do it again.

Hurting France was like a drug he knew he couldn't break himself from. He was an addict through and through.

Nothing else gave him that kind of high.

_Just stand there and watch me cry…_

"I'm sorry."

"I never meant to hurt you."

"Not like this."

England is at his doorstep, dripping from the rain. His hair is sticking to his forehead in clumps, and there are bags under his eyes, dark like bruises. Like the bruises scattered along his skin, along France's own skin, purple and blue and red and green. They still have a while yet to heal completely.

"I won't do it again."

Emerald eyes plead to him, and France knows. He remembers the last time he promised that. He also remembers the time before that, and the time before that.

"Please come back. I…" England bites his lip, still swollen. France reflexively bites his own—they are the same way.

"I…dammit, I miss you. I never wanted to hurt you, I just… you know your temper is as bad as mine is, we just never fail to rile each other up and… _god_  France,  _please_ , could you ever forgive me?"

Pleading words from his friends filter back from his memories, begging him to leave, telling him that their relationship has gone sour and it was time for the two of them to go their separate ways. He says yes anyway. In the end, he always does. Loving England is a like a drug; an addiction he could never break himself from no matter how hard he tried. No one else could give him that kind of high.

No one else understood that this was how they loved.

_It's alright because I love the way you lie._

"You slept with him, didn't you?"

"Non."

He gasps, England knocking the wind out of him when he shoves him in the chest, sending him tumbling over backwards, his knees buckling against the back of the couch. England is on top of him in a second, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking on it, wrenching his head up at an awkward angle to smash their lips together. Their teeth clack together loudly, cutting his lip—or is it England's?—and he tastes blood, blood and rage and something strong. It burns.

England pulls back and slaps him straight across the cheek, hard enough to make stars fly across his vision and make his head snap to the side, making the muscles in his neck twinge sharply.

"You're a liar, you cheating whore," England hisses, aiming this time to punch him, and France grabs him by the shoulders and flips them over and off of the couch onto the cold wooden floor. England's head knocks violently against it, knocking him into a daze long enough for France to pin him down, ravaging his mouth with another bloody kiss. Someone's teeth chip from the force. Neither is sure whose. Neither really cares.

_I love the way you lie._

They tumble across the floor, biting and scratching, growling out words like venom between kisses. Clothes are torn and ruined as they tussle, exchanging blows and pulling and pushing each other—over the coffee table, England manages to bend him over and ravage him against it. Forgotten teacups clatter to the ground and shatter, porcelain digging into his knees and palms. France takes advantage of him against the wall, photographs clattering to the floor, the glass shattering and embedding into his feet. England trips him and fucks him into the floor. France flips them over and fucks him into the same place.

They rut like animals, and they scream like animals. They hurt each other, like animals.

And while they burn, they know they'd never change it for the world.

_Just stand there and watch us burn… it's alright because we like the way it hurts. Just stand there and watch us cry… it's alright because we love the way we lie._

_We love the way we lie._

.~.~.~.~.


End file.
